Six months in, our running joke was we weren't real PIs until we killed someone, only we'd replace PI with other jobs. It made sense at first, doctors, mobsters, cops, but then we ran with it, chefs, waiters, schoolteachers. We always thought about the big time, where we'd get that one case with some millionaire too rich to go the authorities, too dumb to come to anyone but us. There we'd be raining bullets every which way, coming through untouched, kind of like the four-colors in the Sunday funnies. That was different, back then. We didn't know better.
Another slow day, we were joking about librarians, how we weren't real librarians until we killed someone. Bore them to death with a lecture on how to organize the stacks. We were also cleaning our pieces. I didn't name that one, but it was my first. Real beauty, Colt .45 revolver, sat in my hand like home. Mark had a Glock, he was loading his clip. Every bullet he thumbed in, he kissed. I told him that kind of action was out on the corner for twenty a pop.
He told me it was his signature, kinda like how they would draw crosses on silver bullets before shooting werewolves. I told him he was drunk and this wasn't the movies, but he didn't want none of that. Told me it was all about what it meant to him, that each bullet really could be the kiss of death, his kiss of death. Kissed the tip of the bullet as he said it. I told him what else he could kiss.
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